


Cruise

by beyondcanon



Series: Cruise [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany works for a cruise line. Santana’s dragged to a lesbian cruise to properly rebound from her latest breakup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruise

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my [prompt challenge](http://beyondcanon.tumblr.com/tagged/ma%27s-prompt-challenge) on Tumblr. Some stories will be posted on AO3; this is one of them.
> 
> By the structure of the challenge, each part of the Cruise series is a standalone, complete installment. I might add more to it at anytime; I suggest you subscribe in case there's more to come. :)

Whoever gets sober first loses.

That’s the bet.

If Santana is going to be on a cruise, she better be fucking wasted from the moment she steps in to the moment she leaves.

Cruises are a fucking retarded idea. Being stuck on a ship for weeks? It’s like a party with no way out: a living, breathing nightmare.

"Stop being so grumpy," Quinn tells her, shoving another beer in her hand. "You’re still sober".

Santana scoffs. “I am not. This is beer number six.”

"Well, I’m on number eight, so you’re losing." Quinn smirks, and Santana knows that bitch is right.

They’re  _so_  going to have liver issues when they’re done.

—

It starts with a bang.

She gets into the boat with the perfect amount of alcohol in her blood — she’s funny, she’s laughing, she’s dizzy, she’s desirable, she’s on top of the world —  and there are lesbians everywhere.

All kinds of lesbians. Thousands of lesbians. Tall lesbians and short lesbians and Asian American lesbians and African American lesbians and tough lesbians and girly lesbians and kinky lesbians and cute lesbians and skinny lesbians and curvy lesbians.

Lesbians.

Quinn laughs at Santana’s expression. “I told you so!”

"This is like a hunting party," Santana whispers to her.

"Go for it. Take your pick. Dani can go fuck herself." Quinn is very categorical when she drinks.

Her suitcase hasn’t even arrived to her cabin when she gets her first telephone number and her first make out session.

—

There’s a pool.

Santana hangs out by the motherfucking pool with a mojito in hand, like the motherfucking boss she is.

Quinn, on the deckchair by her side, has got a brunette straddling her lap and kissing the daylights out of her.

For someone who was “definitely not gay!”, girl was enjoying herself.

A woman sits by Santana’s side and starts chatting. She’s beautiful: big, curly hair, dark lipstick, and a decisive stare at Santana’s abs. This is going to be good.

A blonde passes by, wearing the white and green shirt characteristic from the cruise’s staff and a pair of shorts close to indecent, strong thighs and longs legs for everyone to see.

Santana makes a mental note to remember the blonde before turning again to the woman by her side and grabbing another mojito.

—

The first party is packed.

Santana can barely remember who Dani is, let alone being cheated on and kicking that treacherous devil woman out of her apartment.

She’s dancing with Quinn to some sick remixes, and they’re sticking to water for the moment because they don’t want to  _die_  on their second day.

Quinn grinds against her, and she’s got her hand on Quinn’s stomach, guiding their movements.

Santana loves how women stare at them both, either desiring or envying. She finishes her bottle of water and pulls Quinn by the hand to the bar, because it’s time they shifted to the big girl drinks again.

The blonde is there. This time with a strong, dark makeup and wearing a dress that leaves very little for imagination. Santana licks her lips.

"Nice shirt," the blonde tells her with an amused look.

Santana smiles. The “I’m the girl your parents warned you about” never gets old. She takes a nice, long look at the blonde. “Nice dress.”

"Thanks," she answers with a small laugh.

Quinn interrupts them to ask for two Island Oasis drinks. Santana stares as the blonde mixes them, entranced by those strong, promising arms.

—

Santana doesn’t feel so good.

She should have stopped three martinis ago.

Her stomach grumbles and revolts against her new alcoholic diet; her heads hurts, and she’s on a motherfucking boat.

There’s no escape.

She can’t go to her room. Quinn is there with some girl, and she still has over one hour before her time is up.

Santana’s best hope is to throw up on the sea and not die.

There’s no one on this side of the boat, this long, dark outer corridor Santana has no idea how she ended up in. Oh, Jesus. What if she dies? What if she dies while Quinn is banging a random woman and there is no one to save her?

Sweet Mary, mother of God. She’s going to die choking in her own vomit.

Someone shows up behind her. “Are you okay?”

Santana remains hunched over, facing the ocean. “No. I drank too much.”

It’s the blonde. She touches Santana’s shoulder. “Do you want me to take you to your cabin?”

"God, no." Santana waves her off. "My friend is…" She clears her throat. "It’s busy."

The blonde looks worried. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

"Don’t ma’am me," Santana scoffs. "I’m too drunk for that shit. Call me Santana."

The blonde smiles. “Santana, I’m Brittany. Why don’t we sit down for a while and I grab a cold towel to put on your head?”

That sounds reasonable.

Apparently there’s a veranda with a bench. Brittany holds Santana’s waist until she sits on it.

"Thank you," Santana says quietly.

Brittany touches Santana’s clammy forehead. “No biggie. Be right back.”

Santana nods. “Don’t take too long.”

Girl must be catwoman, because Santana closes her eyes for a small little second and Brittany is already back.

"Cold towels are the best," Santana moans. “You’re the bestest, though.”

Brittany laughs.

Santana’s entire body feels heavy, so she rests against Brittany’s side for a while.

Just a little while. She’s gonna close her eyes for a little tiny bitsy bit.

—

“Motherf—“ She wakes up at once and sits up.

Her head hurts like a bitch and her mouth feels like dry cotton. “Motherfucker,” she says, moaning and throwing herself back on the bed.

“Shut up, Santana,” Quinn groans and pushes Santana’s shoulder.

She grabs her sacred hangover kit and a water bottle. “How did I get here?”

“The fuck I know.” Quinn rolls to the other side. “Some girl carried you in.”

Shit. “Were you…?”

Quinn’s voice is still coarse with sleep, and she barely answers. “I was done. We’re cool.”

Santana gulps the water. “…did I?”

Quinn grabs the bottle from Santana’s hand. “No vomit, no disgusting shit.”

Santana nods. Could have been a lot worse.

—

It’s mandatory they have a spa morning, each with a Bloody Mary in hand.

She  _deserves_  all those pretty girls massaging her body, applying beauty products on her face and complimenting her skin.

This is the life.

—

Santana knows she’s got to apologize.

It’s in her code: if you’re being a lame-ass drunk, you apologize and do something nice for your poor victim.

She’s got to find this Brittany girl and do something nice.

But what?

—

Santana and Quinn arrive to their dance lesson fresh like fucking daisies, sipping their margueritas.

“I’ve had… the time of my life” is playing. Santana and Quinn exchange a look of “this gonna be good”.

No, it is going to be  _great_.

Brittany is there, already dancing with the other instructor. They throw each other around, crawl towards each other, almost lick each other’s faces.

Damn.

They stop when enough couples have arrived so they can introduce themselves: Brittany and Tina, here to teach whatever hits their fancy.

Brittany keeps looking at Santana, the kind of come-hither-come-to-mama look.

Santana licks her lips.

—

Santana offers herself for the first demonstration, of course.

Brittany takes her hand and holds them in position.

 _Sway_  begins to play. Classy.

Brittany looks right in her eyes as she takes them across the dance floor.

Santana can dance as long as the gentleman could lead; Brittany is the perfect gentleman. Keeping them both close and distant, keeping her in position, signaling every step and every turn perfectly.

“I’m sorry,” Santana sighs.

“For what?” Brittany teases, the hint of a smirk on her lips.

“Being lame yesterday.” Santana does the forward-backward steps and Brittany pulls her back. “I’m cooler than that.”

“Oh, I think you’re cool enough,” Brittany whispers on her ear.

Santana can practically hear her own panties dropping.

—

Brittany not always chooses Santana as a dance partner, which is frustrating.

Santana needs to be grinding against her as soon as possible.

—

She goes through every pamphlet of every possible activity in that boat until she finds her pot of gold: the Urban Club’s first DJ that night will be no one less than Brittany Pierce.

Now that’s what she’s talking about.

—

“Santana, you’re  _fine_ ,” Quinn says as soon as Santana steps out of the bathroom. “I’d bang you right now.”

She knows she’s gorgeous. She doesn’t spend so much time in the gym for nothing. She does it so when she puts on the tightest, most delicious dress she owns, she can walk around like she owns the place.

Quinn continues to apply her own makeup. “And why the Lucky Dress?”

Santana applies another layer of red lipstick. “I need an extra push.”

“You do know there’s probably a rule about people who work in this cruise not being able to hook up with guests, don’t you?” Quinn raises an eyebrow.

Santana shrugs, placing the lipstick back on the stand. “I have zero fucks to give.”

Santana Lopez is a fucking predator.

—

Of course Brittany sees her from the DJ booth.

She’s three tequila shots and two beers in, and she’s the hottest piece of ass there. She knows how to shake her booty.

She’s turned down four different women so far, and she’s going to keep doing it until Brittany decides to take action.

It doesn’t mean she can’t play a little with them, though.

—

When Brittany’s set is up she gestures to Santana to go outside.

Smiling, Santana follows.

Quinn’s already making out with some brunette, anyway.

Brittany walks always a few steps ahead. Santana doesn’t complain, because she can stare at that fine ass in those fine jeans.

She takes Santana to a dark and deserted outer deck, where there seems to be a party half-prepared – maybe tomorrow’s Mexican extravaganza will be there.

She likes this.

Brittany leans against a wall; the wind blows her hair around a bit. She gestures for Santana to come closer.

Santana does as told.

Brittany grabs her waist and pulls them flush against each other. “You put on that little show just to throw me off my balance, didn’t you?”

Sweet baby Jesus, that woman means business.

“I did,” Santana answers, holding her breath when Brittany’s lips graze her neck. “It’s a very effective tactic.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Brittany answers, low and raspy, before placing wet kisses down Santana’s neck.

This is better than expected.

Santana presses Brittany harder against the wall and kisses her fully, all teeth and bite. Brittany moans, leaning her waist forward and opening her legs so Santana can stand right between them.

Santana grabs Brittany’s long hair and pulls, biting Brittany’s lower lip, her body undulating in all the right ways.

The sound of someone walking nearby makes them stop.

The sounds grow distant.

They look at each other, still very much tangled.

“If anyone asks, this never happened.” Brittany whispers on Santana’s ear before turning them around and sandwiching Santana to the wall.

Santana kisses Brittany’s collarbone slow and wet. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Brittany holds Santana’s hands up against the wall with one hand, exploring Santana’s body with the other. “Good.”

This is new. Santana licks her lips in anticipation.

She cups Santana’s breast, pinching her hardened nipple over her dress. Santana’s arches her body, pressing down on Brittany’s thigh.

“No bra.” Brittany says, biting her lip. “I like it.” She moves her thigh until it’s rubbing perfectly against Santana.

Oh God. Santana lets out a breathy moan.

“Ride me,” she commands. Santana obeys, trying to get as much friction as possible. “Show me you want it.”

She rides Brittany’s thigh until her legs hurt, her head thrown back, her lips parted. She rides it until her dress goes up and her clit aches.

She’s soaking her dress. “You should see for yourself.”

Brittany smiles and lets go of Santana’s hands. Whining in relief and frustration, she pulls Brittany for a kiss, tongue entering Brittany’s mouth.

Brittany sucks on her tongue, hand pulling Santana’s dress up. “No panties. You really are the girl for me.”

She bites Brittany’s lip when Brittany runs two fingers over her folds. “Just fuck me already.”

It’s sudden and wet and she whines when Brittany enters three fingers at once, breathing on her neck. “Like this? Can you take it, Santana?”

“God, yes.” The way she says Santana’s name is both sexy and provocative, but Santana wants more. “Fuck me.”

Brittany flicks her wrist and begins to move in and out, and Santana’s never been this full, this willing, this submissive.

She stops holding back, moaning Brittany’s name shameless as Brittany thrusts deep and hard.

Brittany groans on her ear, pinning her against the wall harder. “You’re so tight. Fuck.”

She holds on to Brittany’s shoulders, her legs too weak to support her. She’s stretched, throbbing, begging Brittany to continue, to never stop, to fuck her all night.

Fuck, she’ll do anything Brittany ever asks if she fucks her like that every time.

“Don’t worry.” Brittany wraps an arm around her, changing the angle and going deeper. “I’ll fuck you as many times you want, Santana.”

Brittany’s thumb hits Santana’s clit for the first time and it sends a jolt of energy she isn’t expecting.

She bites Brittany’s shoulder, pulling her hair and panting faster every time Brittany hits her sensitive spot, her release building up uncontrollably.

Brittany bites her ear. “Are you going to come for me?”

She nods as it hits her, her entire body shaking, Brittany’s perfume permanently fixed on her memory as her thrusts make her orgasm longer and longer.

“We need to do this again,” Santana says, breathless, her legs numb and her head dizzy. “Soon.”

Brittany kisses the spot beneath Santana’s ear. “We are not finished.”


End file.
